Poetry in flames

Empty Skin A.R.Abdullah The mirror learned my name in screams, in blackened broken beams, It watched me drown in sleepless dreams beneath the starving seams. The ceiling peeled like rotting skin above a heart gone numb, And every clock became a hymn for all I might become. I chewed the silence from my teeth till blood replaced the prayer, The night would press against my grief like fingers through my hair. My ribs became cathedral bars that caged a dying choir, Each lonely thought collapsed to scars and fed the inner fire. The soul is just a wound that walks beneath a borrowed face, A trembling animal that talks yet cannot find its place. I dragged my shadow through the halls where dead tomorrows crawl, And heard my own reflection bawl like insects in the wall. The moon looked sick with human ache, a pale infected eye, It watched the lakes of people break while begging not to die. I held my heartbeat like a gun against my shaking chest, And prayed the silence would outrun the horror of my breath. What is the self but borrowed dust pretending it is whole? A swarm of ghosts inside the rusted machinery of soul. I am the splinter in the vein, the fever in the bone, The echo chewing through the brain when no one else is home. My mother’s lullabies still crawl like spiders through the dark, Their holy little silver claws still scratching at the heart. The child I was still hides beneath the floorboards of my head, Counting every drop of breath like footsteps of the dead. And love, that brutal starving hound with teeth of smoke and need, Still drags my carcass through the ground and makes the flowers bleed. I kissed the mouths of empty rooms till language started crying, And every word became a tomb where softer selves were dying. So let the heavens choke on ash, let every planet rust, Let every holy window crash and turn its saints to dust. For pain’s the only faithful god that never leaves alone, It plants its gardens through the blood and makes the body home. And when at last my spine is bent beneath oblivion’s wave, The worms will write what sorrow meant upon my nameless grave. No angels singing golden psalms, no peace, no grand release, Just silence folding in my palms like mutilated peace.

The Architecture of Ruins A.R.ABDULLAH The floor is cold with silver tears that never found the light, A harvest of the hollow hours we spent within the night. To grow is not a gentle thing, a soft and green ascent, It is the cracking of the ribs until the heart is spent. It is the sound of grinding stone, the smell of burning skin, The violent war we wage to let the holy spirit in. We beg for mercy from the blade that trims the dying vine, Yet crave the intoxication of the bitter, pressed-out wine. ​You are the anvil and the spark, the hammer and the heat, The victor standing breathless in the wreckage of defeat. For every inch of height you gain, a mile of root must die, Descending deep into the muck to reach the open sky. We scream against the furnace doors, we curse the searing flame, Until the fire licks away the shadow of our name. There is a beauty in the break, a glory in the gasp, When everything you loved is ripped from out your white-knuckled grasp. ​So let the salt-tide swallow you and wash the senses clean, To find the jagged, diamond edge of what you’ve always been. The womb is just a narrow grave, the grave a wider room, And only those who dare to rot can ever hope to bloom. So bleed until the ink runs dry, weep until you’re blind, Leave the tattered, weeping rags of who you were behind. For when the final veil is torn and all the pain is through, The universe will stand in awe of what was carved from you.

The holy fracture A.R.ABDULLAH I stood before a hollow glass to find a stranger’s eyes, And realized the love I sought was wearing a disguise. For years I traced a silhouette, a ghost I couldn't hold, While leaving my own inner hearth to gather dust and cold. But there is a sudden, sharp descent—a falling, deep and true— Not into arms of someone else, but back, my soul, to you. It is a heavy, sacred thing to court your own dark light, To be the hand that holds the match against the bitter night. ​The dreams we weave are silver veins that bind the broken clay, The only maps that guide us through the wreckage of the day. Without them, we are scattered ash, a breath without a chest, But dreams demand a heavy price; they give the heart no rest. They pull us toward a wholeness that the world would keep apart, Stitching every jagged edge into a work of art. Yet, to reach that final form, the spirit has to break, For there is no way to reach the dawn without the holy ache. ​The sadness is a rhythmic tide, a salt upon the tongue, The dirge that must be chanted if the anthem’s to be sung. It carves out canyons in the chest, wide and deep and vast, So more of life can settle in and find a home at last. We do not grow in sunny fields where everything is still, But in the storm, against the grain, and by the force of will. The pain is not a punishment, but the stretching of the bone, The weight that turns the common coal into a precious stone. ​So let the sorrow have its way, let the longing sting and tear, There is a beauty in the wound that nothing can repair. I am falling for the person who survived the jagged years, Whose vision only sharpened through a thousand veils of tears. I am the dreamer and the dream, the healer and the scar, Finding that the furthest reach was never very far. To love yourself is to embrace the grief that made you wise, And see the universe take shape within your own two eyes.

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Do u guys ever get the urge to cry but u cant and u feel a knot in ur throat?

The open hand A.R.ABDULLAH There was a hunger carved beneath the bone, a hollow voice that never spoke alone, it wore the past like bruises dressed in gold, it bit the heart and called the breaking “old”— old as the silence stitched into a scream, old as the death of every childhood dream. And God—the fury—how it begged to rise, to flood the throat, to sharpen in the eyes, to spit the hurt back harder than it came, to set the world alight and call it “name”— to finally make the pain belong somewhere, to tear it loose and force it into air. But in the wreck, beneath the urge to burn, there lived a softer, more unbearable turn: not rage—not teeth—not fire split apart— but something far more brutal—an open heart. A hand that did not strike when it was torn, a voice that did not curse the way it mourned, a soul that, shaking, chose not to become the very blade it had been bleeding from. What kind of strength is this?—to not attack, to feel the knife and never hand it back, to cradle grief like something small and wild, and speak to it the way one soothes a child? The tears came thick—like rain that rots the ground, each drop a memory that would not drown, they tasted like the names that went unsaid, like all the love that starved and stayed for dead— and still, the mouth refused to twist in spite, it broke—but would not sharpen into bite. There was a room still living in the chest, where every younger self had come to rest, with trembling hands and eyes that learned too soon how love can vanish like a borrowed moon— and there, instead of anger, something grew: a grief so deep it taught the heart what’s true. That pain is not a weapon to return, not every wound is meant to make you burn, that breaking does not need to justify becoming all the things that made you cry. So kindness came—not soft—but fierce and wide, like oceans learning how to hold the tide, like choosing, in the middle of the ache, to not become the harm you could remake. And oh—it hurts—God, how it always will, a quiet ache no silence ever kills— but in that ache, a strange and sacred art: to hold the knife… and never lose the heart.

Marrow and Moth A.R.ABDULLAH The milk-teeth of the morning bite the hem of the sheet, I am the bruise and the fruit and the bitter and sweet. There’s a knot in my throat where the wood used to be, Before the forest forgot how to look at the tree. I am the sink-water circling the drain, The animal logic of living through pain. ​The self is a house with the windows blown thin, Letting the outside come rattling in. I am the jaw of the mountain, the dust of the shelf, I am the ghost of the life that I promised myself. It’s a copper-wire humming, a low-bellied ache, The ice on the river just waiting to break. ​I’ve been the moth in the sweater, the rust on the nail, The kite that is begging the wind for a tail. My skin is a letter that no one has read, Written in blue on the backs of the dead. Is this the connection? The blood and the dirt? The way that the healing is shaped like the hurt? ​The life is a predator, patient and kind, It eats all the shadows we leave here behind. It’s the wet of the moss and the grey of the stone, The feeling of being entirely alone In a body that breathes without asking me why, Under the weight of a heavy-set sky. ​So lay me down soft in the tall, yellow grass, And watch all the versions of 'me' as they pass. I’m the oil in the engine, the salt in the tear, The silence that grows at the end of the year. It’s a violent mercy, it’s raw and it’s deep, To wake up and find you have nothing to keep. ​I am the echo, the iron, the vine, Where the life and the self start to blur and entwine. I’m a mouth full of clover, a chest full of tin, Letting the great, wide nothingness in. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Losing the war? And finding in Reality there was none before, it was just you, fighting your own shore.